Thursday, February 3, 2028

  Waves of stagnant rainwater trailed Ben’s car as he puttered down Cayman Street. Gray, late afternoon clouds hung overhead like a dark, celestial sponge freshly drained of its contents. The squirrel eyed the familiar red-white signage just one block away and a smile tugged at his muzzle. Horace’s Forage Bin awaited the young Savory Avery’s caterer. The coyote’s visage sat to the right of the text. His friendly grin and wink invited his loyal customer to peruse his fully-stocked aisles. Herbs, fungi, nuts, and all sat ripe for the plucking.

  “She’s gonna love this.” Ben drummed his little fingers against the wheel as he rolled up to a red light. Carla, his wife of seven months, was visiting her parents and would be back by around seven that evening. It was more than enough time to prepare one of her favorite meals, Nutty Mushroom Risotto. What a lovely surprise she’d come home to after her long drive. The door’d swing open with a weary thrust and Carla’d think merely of crashing in bed.

  … Then an earthy, savory scent from their table swaddles her. Translucent wisps of steam curl upward from two bowls as the risotto cools. The small, scintillating flame of the candle brightens the space between with a warm, orange glow. As she takes in the scene, her doting husband swoops in with a kiss and escorts her to her seat-

  HONK!

  The blast of a car horn from behind jolted Ben from his daze. The green light ahead urged him to plow forward; it wasn’t going to get any greener.

  An embarrassed foot pressed down the gas pedal, and onward the rodent sped.

  -

  Horace beamed at the squirrel like a cosmic blast of starlight the moment he stepped through the door. “’sup dawg!” The coyote tossed him a hearty nod and resumed stocking one of his shelves with fresh rosemary.

  “Hey.” Ben offered a modest wave. He stopped and inhaled the motley of earthy aromas through his nostrils. A content smile lit up his face; it was like being in the heart of the forest. Horace always kept a stack of woven baskets near the entrance so customers would really feel like they were foraging nature’s treats. The sides of the shelves resembled tree trunks, so walking into the shop felt more like entering the woods. The squirrel climbed up the side of the baskets closer to his size, and plucked one off.

  “What’cha looking for?” Horace asked, his voice conversational. He cut open a box of fresh chives with his box-cutter, but kept his eyes on Ben.

  Ben took a step towards the far-left aisle, already knowing that’s where his item was. “Chanterelles; gonna make a nice risotto for Carla.”

  The coyote stopped what he was doing and pensively looked up. His mouth twitched, as though bracing himself to deliver bad news. He faced his customer again. “… Think I’m out of those.”

  Ben’s heart sank.

  “I believe I have more coming Thursday if you wanna come back.”

  The squirrel’s shoulders slumped. “It’s her birthday; I wanted to treat her tonight.” He added, as though his will had the power to make chanterelles materialize in his basket.

  The coyote rose on his fours and his tail wagged. “We’ll find something; ain’t the end of the world.” He smirked confidently and trotted towards the fungus aisle. The dedicated chef husband followed, a glint of hope in his stride. Surely there was a carton of chanterelles tucked behind another box in a dark corner.

  They hit the aisle; Horace skimmed each box and label. “Shitake… porcini… morel… maitake… black trumpet… uh…”

  Ben’s heart sank deeper as a quiet, vexed sigh left his mouth. None of those tasted anything like chanterelles. Should’ve gotten here sooner.

  “Well,” Horace patted one of the boxes with resignation. “There’s porcinis if you want something close… ish? Or I’m sure another place’s got chanterelles.” He offered. Ben and his wife deserved a nice dinner, even if it came at the cost of suggesting a competitor’s shop.

  The squirrel knew another place that might’ve had chanterelles in stock, but it was too far. Going there meant not having dinner ready in time. He exhaled a weak laugh. “Porcini’s fine. Five ounces’ll do it.”

  The coyote nodded and meted out five ounces of porcini (it came out to 5.5 ounces, but Horace let him keep the extra half-ounce at no additional cost). The canine thanked him for his business and waved as Ben trotted out to his car.

  The rodent buzzed his lips, annoyed, as he turned the ignition. He hoped Carla liked porcinis; perhaps clever ingredient-mixing would save the meal? Focused and determined not to throw in the towel, the resourceful chef mulled over his next move.

  -

  6:00 that night

  The squirrel unlocked the door to his apartment and trotted to the kitchen. He whistled to himself as he arrayed his mise en place. All his equipment, the arborio rice, onions, garlic, pine nuts, vegetable broth, nutritional yeast, and the porcini mushrooms he hoped Carla wouldn’t mind. To be safe, he marched into the pantry and grabbed a lemon, some walnuts, and plant-based cream. There’d be no covering up the bitter, umami notes of the porcini, but at least they’d help balance it.

  Ben was going to save this dish. His beloved wife deserved it.

  Within minutes, a melodious motley of aromas filled the kitchen. Ingredients chopped, lemons zested, aromatics sautéed. Careful paws measured precise portions and adjusted heat accordingly. Risottos lived or died based on how well the stove cooperated, especially late in the game. Consistent heat was the tightrope the meal trod. Unwavering, not too hot, not too cold. Ben needed to keep his eye on it, pouncing the moment anything looked or smelled funny. The stove was a high-end brand the landlord had installed four years ago. The young chef would’ve liked a newer one, but it still worked fine. He didn’t need to pester her about it.

  Ben glanced at the time on the oven. 6:25. Carla was on her way, eyes half-lidded from driving and stomach grumbling with biting hunger only her husband’s five-star risotto could quench. His simmering pan of rice, onions, garlic, and conservative dose of porcinis awaited the broth. He restrained his gleeful anticipation and steadied his paws, visage stoic with focused resolve. His senses attuned to every detail; this was the part of any risotto dish easiest to ruin. Any negligible deviation with the heat could reduce the food to inedible slop. Ben had watched too many veteran chefs on cooking shows botch risotto with either burnt or undercooked rice. The judges, like a panel of sentient meat cleavers, eviscerated them. Nobody was safe when it came to risotto.

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  Ben wasn’t going to mess up. This was going to be the greatest meal he ever cooked.

  Minutes ticked by one by one. Ladle here… stir… but not too much. Another ladle here… let the rice absorb it… stir again… repeat…

  A quick taste... The squirrel chewed the meager bite…

  He smiled and his tail twitched with an air of preemptive victory, but held his focus. Paw steady, he added a dash of salt. 6:40. Twenty minutes until she stepped through that door. Another stir… rice clung moderately to the bottom; better add another ladle… taste it again… was the sizzle getting louder?

  A sharp odor stung his nostrils. His whiskers bristled and ears perked.

  Burning.

  His heart dropped in a wave of melancholic dread. Before he could catch another whiff, wisps of smoke rose from the food. The burner lit a ratchet brighter, giving an intense orange radiance... too intense. A pinch of extra heat tickled his arm hairs, singeing fringe molecules. The sizzling hiss grew from a whisper to an unpleasant crackle, a taunting gloat sneering at the panicked squirrel.

  “No no no!” Ben fiddled with the knob, once steady hands fumbling as he lowered the heat. He twisted it counterclockwise.

  Too much.

  The heat vanished.

  The squirrel turned it back to where it was before. The heat returned to its original level and Ben quickly added more broth. He gave it another stir.

  The rice was sticking harder. He fought to free it with a forceful nudge, sending a few grains of rice flying out of the pan. His eyes bulged and his brow perspired; the grains at the bottom donned a toasty, light brown.

  The risotto cried MAYDAY as the squirrel dug into his trove of culinary knowledge. His heart raced; he could save the dish, but it wobbled along a quivering tightrope.

  6:46.

  “You got this, you got this…” He muttered under his breath. “This dumb stove’d better cooperate-”

  The range flared back hotter this time, the appliance bent on spite. Acrid fumes assailed his senses in vengeful avarice. The squirrel recoiled and held a paw to his nose. Smoke drifted upward like a formless specter.

  Ben flicked the heat off, then back on at a lower temperature. Another stir, the squirrel giving an anxious gulp as his muscles tensed. Deep brown rice resisted his spoon. Patches of it clung to the bottom, while the top rice stayed soupy. The heat spiked up a third time. More scorching, more smoke. The rice at the bottom was browning to the point of becoming ash. In a mindless panic, the frazzled rodent dumped in the remainder of the broth and stirred. The rice would absorb it and fix itself, right?

  He knew it was a lost battle, but kept stirring. He didn’t want to admit defeat despite being clamped in its teeth. “She deserved better…” He shook his head and slumped his shoulders. “This stupid stove… why now?”

  6:53.

  Arms limp, his will wafting away like the smoke from the pan, he turned the heat off and on again. The food was beyond help. An incongruously textured heap of rice and despair stared at him. The heat behaved this time, but the damage was done.

  Eviscerating comments reverberated through his mind, slicing him apart. A doleful face gazed back at him in the reflection of the toaster nearby.

  Nobody was safe when it came to risotto.

  -

  Ben ran around opening the windows and running the air filter. The scorched risotto sat in its sepulcher of sadness, but there was no reason his apartment needed to smell like failure. The crestfallen rodent scooped out the portions that were “mostly edible,” and adorned them with a little more cream and lemon zest. Like slapping makeup onto a scar-riddled face, but it was all he had. He wouldn’t blame Carla if she made him sleep on the couch tonight. She wouldn’t actually do that, but knew in his heart he deserved it.

  The clinking of keys outside made him bristle. “Hold on.” He uttered and went to open the door. The burning smell hadn’t vanished entirely; there’d be no hiding his disaster. Carla stepped through, her expression straddling a poker face and a smile. It was as though she couldn’t wait to tell him a dad joke she just heard. They greeted each other with a kiss while Ben waited for her inevitable disappointment.

  She tilted her head and sniffed, then her eyes drifted to the pitiful lumps of food on their table. Their good, ornate tablecloth draped over its surface while a scented pine candle lit up the center. Its scintillating glow beckoned them over to enjoy their meal in warm companionship. Ben watched her face with bated breath. Any moment, she’d-

  “This is lovely… you did all this for me?”

  Ben looked down and fidgeted. “Yeah… I’m sorry. I’ll make it up-”

  She grabbed his paws gently with hers, cutting him off. If she thought the risotto looked dumpster-worthy, she didn’t show it. “I, uh…” Her tail swayed. “Have a surprise too.”

  Ben cocked an eyebrow, a subtle smirk pulled at his muzzle. Over the past couple of weeks, Carla had been working hard to get Savory Avery’s name out in the open. Rigorous social media-posting, ads, word-of-mouth networking, all while he and his assistant chefs did all the cooking. The biggest gig he’d ever done was cater his high school friend (now small-forward for the Las Piceas Vipers), Curtis’, wedding a year ago. It was lucrative, but his still-fledgling business struggled to show up on anyone else’s radar (even after Curtis shouted him out on his five social media accounts). Carla did everything she could to leverage the athlete’s fame to land more star-studded gigs.

  Did her work finally pay off?

  “So, uh,” Ben cleared his throat. “Who’d we get? Of course, I’ll make sure they don’t see that mess behind me.” He joked. Carla chuckled, but hardly glanced at the risotto. Her eyes moistened as she released one of her paws and wiped at them.

  “Well… Ben,” She took his paw again and squeezed, letting out a sniffle and meeting his eyes directly.

  Ben’s ears perked. “No way… We get someone really important? Can’t help but feel a little nervous.” He returned her chuckle, half-expecting to hear they’d somehow gotten the attention of the president or some world-famous movie star. Whoever they got, Ben got the sense this person would change their lives for good.

  “… You could say that.” Carla’s smile broadened, then lifted her arms up to embrace him. “We got… we got…” She stammered, tears welling in her eyes and dribbling down her cheeks and whiskers.

  “A… a little one… I’m pregnant, Ben.”

  Ben went numb. In a flash, every emotion converged in his heart and melded into something he couldn’t describe. The squirrel was speechless as he released her hug and stared at her, mouth agape.

  Carla pulled him back into a hug and let her tears flow freely. “You’re going to be Daddy... I-I’m gonna be Mommy…”

  All other senses around them, including the humiliation Ben suffered the last twenty minutes, evaporated as the couple held each other in their arms. Crying, laughing, struggling to form coherent words.

  He sought to surprise her with a thoughtful gift, realizing even a perfect risotto couldn’t have topped hers. That didn’t stop him from making his best chanterelle-laden risotto a week later on their new stove. Carla made sure to down every last grain, as she now had a child in her to nourish. Seven months later, they welcomed Anita Avery into their world. Her father was excited to show her a world of possibility, family, and most importantly, great cooking.

  THE END